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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29234316">Furnace of the Ninth</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AzraelFiernen/pseuds/AzraelFiernen'>AzraelFiernen</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Canon Compliant, F/F, Gen, Pre-Canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:22:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,946</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29234316</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AzraelFiernen/pseuds/AzraelFiernen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you,” Harrow said acidly, “perhaps have any idea how to turn the things on? No? Then let me concentrate.”<br/>“Do I know how to turn things on?” Gideon said, gleeful at the opening. "Why don’t you ask--”<br/>“By God, Griddle. We are about to turn into a rock of ice and all of us will be dead forever -- and an insipid sex joke is your response?” </p><p>                                                                                                  ~~~~~~<br/>Maybe not the eyes. Harrow couldn’t help thinking of Gideon when she looked into those eyes. And there was no one she wanted to think of less when looking at The Body. But of course, those two stories in Harrow’s life: the dead girl, and the girl who should’ve died were inextricable from each other. They wove a tight, messy knot in Harrow’s ribcage. And it could never come undone.</p><p>                                                                                   ~~~~~ </p><p>The Ninth generators fail. Gideon is brought into the Nonagesimus sanctum, so that she does not freeze, where Harrow struggles to prevent the entire house from collapsing. But as Gideon thinks things might soften between them, Harrow lashes back.<br/> <br/></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gideon Nav &amp; Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Furnace of the Ninth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The metal of Gideon’s cell was even colder than normal beneath her calloused palms, so icy it burned. She watched as blood trickled from her ears and spattered on the steel before crystallizing into tiny red clumps of ice. Sweat was curling off her biceps in pearly wisps of mist -- an image that would have given her a spot on the features of her Cohort Magazines, but that was, unfortunately, a precursor to Gideon’s imminent hypothermia. </p><p>Gideon lowered herself down for one more push-up and as her teeth rattled unwillingly in their sockets like Crux’s bones every time he endeavoured to descend a staircase as she extended her arms, she was forced to confront the necessity of utilizing the blanket on her cot. Not that it would help overmuch. It was, like all Ninth things, scanty and coarse. And of the Ninth’s scanty and coarse offerings, Gideon Nav, its thrall and servant, got the scantiest and coarsest of the lot. The Ninth’s lack of resources and general decrepitness  was why the life inside of her totally ripped and smoking hot body was being threatened by hypothermia in the first place: generator failure. Or, and Gideon certainly hadn’t ruled out the possibility, Harrow had simply turned off the heating to Gideon’s cell for shits and giggles. That was always her way to win an argument: in some nasty, tricky way that meant Gideon couldn’t fight back. </p><p>Their argument earlier hadn’t been anything to write in Gideon’s future memoirs of a Cohort Hero (living on the Ninth would be in the earlier tragic backstory chapters). They’d had better and they’d had worse. Gideon was only glad that the extent of her injuries was an ear dripping blood. Harrow hadn’t even used a skeleton to do it; she had two of her constructs pin Gideon down and just kicked her in the head, until Gideon stopped trying to bite the foot of the Ninth’s beloved necromancer, through the brutal black confines of her esteemed and sanctified boot. Though this might have been due to the brain damage inflicted over years of ceaseless head-bashings by the fifteen-year-old Reverend Daughter, Gideon could scarcely remember what the fight had been about. They all tended to blur together: after all this time,  it didn’t so much matter what they were arguing over; it just mattered that it was Harrow. </p><p> Gideon sat on the bed, hunched over on herself, closing the blanket tight around chest and her unwillingly-donned church robes, so that she looked like a delusional child, too old for superheroes, with a make-believe cape -- and, Gideon thought, in her self-pity, how was that any different than a make-believe Cohort uniform. But joining the Cohort was not just a pipe-dream. No, she was on her twenty-third escape attempt. And this time it would work. It had to. </p><p>She watched her breath cloud and bead on the heatless heating ducts. The damp of her own lungs was the grimy silver color of moonlight she could not see from this far down. </p><p> No one was meant to live like this. Gideon Nav, thrall and servant of the Ninth House and its Lady Harrowhark Nonagesimus and her two dead-as-fuck parents, had done it for sixteen years.</p><p>					~~~</p><p>Lady Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Penumbral Mistress of Drearbruh, Precious Scion of her two dead-as-fuck parents, was, in that moment, thinking the exact same thing as Gideon Nav. If she had known precisely how often she thought the exact same thing as Gideon Nav, she probably would have found a way to overcome her debt to the two-hundred dead souls inside of her, and joined her parents in their blissful insensateness. But she did not know, so she continued to think: no one was meant to live like this. </p><p>It was, in her defense, the absolute truth. The Ninth was built to be a tomb, and a tomb was not meant for the living. The founder of their house, Anastasia, was meant to only seal the body within its tomb, and leave it, leave the planet uninhabited. Therefore, even in the wealth of ten thousand years, its generators were weak, its resources nil, its halls frigid, and its power waning more by the day. Harrow was equal parts thankful to Anastasia, because the Ninth was the sole end and purpose of her life, and angered, because the Ninth was now dying and all of the Ninth was working against her attempts to keep it alive. </p><p>She stood perfectly still and silent within her robes as the elevator lowered her into the darkness, grinding her molars, so that they did not do something as undignified as chatter, even in solitude. It grew steadily colder and Harrow, rather than place her hands onto the metal, unclipped the bone stud from her ear and, from it, sprouted an articulated construct, to turn the wheel. It groaned and screeched and Harrow resolved to order Crux to get the skeletons to properly oil the lifts. But not now. Things were worsening far too quickly. She had no idea how to fix the generators; no one had known how they’d worked for centuries. But Harrow was a quick study. </p><p>Harrow stared at the cages that housed the crepe-adorned generators that usually whirred a dull and endless drone, but now burned with unbearable silence. A failure had never happened before, and Harrow did not know what to do. No one had known how the generators had worked in centuries, certainly no one knew how to fix them. Still, her own incompetence made Harrow’s brain curdle. If she did not do something, the feeble remnants of the Ninth would be stamped out like a spark under a boot. The Ninth would truly and completely become their tomb. She had been conceived by genocide, in order to save the Ninth; Harow was not so ungrateful to fail in her singular task. </p><p>She peered between the grating towards the generator, seeing no thanergy, no thalergy: nothing. She was a necromancer, not a sixth house engineer. It rankled to think Palamades would hardly break a sweat having to grapple with something as simple as a generator failure -- not that the Sixth’s generators would fail in the first place. He would laugh at her situation, laugh that she would have to grovel. She formed two icy circlets around her wrists with her fingers and closed her eyes. </p><p> Harrow was not so proud as to kill her people for it. She would simply have to warm the Ninth by some other means until she could get help from outside the House. A living appendix of the Sixth was better than an independent body that could not breath. Even if she had to grovel for the privilege. </p><p>Still, Harrow breathed in through her nose, ignoring the spiking pain in her sinuses. Perhaps there was some other way than prostrating herself before the other houses. She would exhaust the other options first. She followed the hall to its termination, glaring at each of the generators she passed as if her pure anger could spark them back into functioning. The shadows were at their most potent down here, dark enough that even Harrow’s Drearbruh-adjusted eyes struggled to perceive the shapes on the wall of the armory. </p><p> </p><p>There was another generator here, set back into the wall, not surrounded by a cage. Like the rest, it was dull and dead. But Harrow could actually access it. She was crawling closer to try and take it apart, when something brushed across her shoulder. Harrow closed her eyes and leaned into the touch. </p><p>She turned slowly and stared into the flaming eyes of the God’s Death, the Body of the Locked Tomb. She came infrequently now, rarely when Harrow needed her, often only in her sleep. It had been for years that she had only come in Harrow’s sleep; that had been hell. She never spoke. Looking at her, Harrow did not mind the cold. She would brave ice a thousand times colder to look at the perfect slope of the Body’s shoulder, her serenity, the divot in her lip, her burnished burning eyes. </p><p>Maybe not the eyes. Harrow couldn’t help thinking of Gideon when she looked into those eyes. And there was no one she wanted to think of less when looking at The Body. But of course, those two stories in Harrow’s life: the dead girl, and the girl who should’ve died were inextricable from each other. They wove a tight, messy knot in Harrow’s ribcage. And it could never come undone. </p><p> </p><p>					~~~~<br/>
Aiglamene was the one who came for Gideon, which tipped her off to the fact that this was not one of Harrow’s punishments. Aiglamene never got involved in what she called their spats. She could not blame the head of their Ninth house, so she blamed Gideon’s insubordination. But Gideon sometimes imagined a glimmer of sympathy in the swordswoman’s eyes when Gideon was bleeding on the floor for the dozenth time.</p><p>“Generator failure,” she said brusquely, “Harrow wants you to come in. The cells will be the first to freeze.” </p><p>“How considerate,” Gideon said, “only took her about three hours after beating me to smithereens.” </p><p>“Will you just get out of bed, Nav, and come with me.” Aiglamene pushed her liver-spotted hands into the key. Gideon noticed how they shook and averted her gaze before Aiglamene could catch her looking. The lock clicked and Gideon swept out.<br/>
Aigamene stood there: “Grab the blanket, Nav. They’re limited in supply and it’s cold everywhere.” </p><p>“Oh, right.” Gideon backtracked. “Got it.” The old woman snorted, but Gideon moved quickly. Her mentor’s bone leg bowed even worse in the cold.</p><p>And then Aiglamene led her, not towards the church, but towards the inner sanctum: the Nonagesimus library. </p><p>Gideon looked at her. </p><p>“They don’t know the cells aren’t getting heated yet. Harrow’s told them it's a limited failure. Your presence would disprove that.” </p><p>“Oh shit,” said Gideon. Her eyebrows rocketed. “That means I’m staying in the library. With her. On second thought, I think I’d rather freeze to death.” </p><p>Aiglamene glowered. “She’s doing you a favor, Nav. Just try not to provoke her.” She walked, in her uneven walk, back towards the chapel. </p><p> </p><p>						~~~</p><p>“Do you,” Harrow said acidly, “perhaps have any idea how to turn the things on. No? Then let me concentrate.”  Gideon stopped doing clap-push-ups, which, admittedly, had been echoing rather loudly, and brought herself into a sitting position on the floor. </p><p>“Do I know how to turn things on?” Gideon said, gleeful at the opening, “why don’t you ask--” </p><p>“By God, Griddle. We are about to turn into a rock of ice and all of us will be dead forever -- and an insipid sex joke is your response?” Harrow did not turn to look at her, so she didn’t get the full force of her scorn. She had explained in the most condescending way possible to Gideon that in absence of the generators she was sending thanergy directly into the heating elements to the church and the library. It was limited in scope, and a very temporary fix. </p><p>“Invoking God now, are we?” Gideon had, at this point, realized Harrow could probably not beat her up: all of her thangery was focused on whatever stupid necromancer shit was finagling the heating and although Gideon could discount Harrow’s physical prowess any day, right now she was recovering from hypothermia, and especially weak. She was safe. “I thought he was too sacred and powerful to use in ordinary speech.” She would use this opportunity for all it was worth. </p><p>Harrow pinched her lips, and Gideon could see a hint of blood where the black paint thinned at the bow of her lips. She was somewhat entranced; she had forgotten Harrow’s veins didn’t run with ice, or liquid lead. “The Prince Undying has greater and more worthy things to worry about than a false invocation of his name.” This was Harrow’s very stiff and protracted way of saying she had fucked up and didn’t want to admit it.</p><p>“That was a very protracted way of saying you fucked up and don’t want to admit it.” </p><p>“You don’t even know the meaning of protracted, you miscreant.” Harrow turned to her, giving her the full force of the Priestess-something-rock-something. Gideon who was, at this point, inoculated against the general spookiness of Ninth house facepaint, found herself more frightened by the fact that Harrow’s skin, beneath the paint, was somehow smooth as bone. That either indicated a hellish skincare regime, in which Harrow bathed in nun’s blood nightly, or that Gideon’s acne was a specialized curse.  </p><p>“I just used it in a sentence...correctly!” Gideon realized that perhaps too long of a moment had passed in which she had been studying Harrow’s face. She found herself wishing for facepaint as she flushed. </p><p>“It’s the Priestess-Chained-Under-Rock,” Harrow said, mistaking Gideon’s stare for curiosity. She should’ve known better. Gideon had not given a shit about the Ninth facepaint since she’d no longer have to figure out the most efficient way to claw it off her face once service ended. It didn’t really matter: grappling in the dirt with Harrow usually meant it was rubbed off fast enough anyways, or at least runny with blood. </p><p>“Kinky,” Gideon snapped back, far too aggressively for it to even attempt to be funny. Harrow blinked at her. There was silence. Gideon began to rub the bit of black blanket between her greasy fingers. Usually she didn’t notice since her own blankets were equally greasy as her skin, a trait gathered from sitting in the Ninth’s air. Maybe this was where all the acne was coming from. Harrow just had access to higher-quality fabric. </p><p>					~~~</p><p>Marshal Crux, as always, stepped in like a savior. Gideon had just made another inane comment, after staring at her steadily and Harrow did not like it, especially since it seemed empty of malice. If it was not malice, whatever other emotion Griddle was harboring inside her soul was terrifying, like some inscrutable nuclear weapon. Harrow had known since age ten that Gideon Nav would be the undoing of the Ninth house; and who was the Ninth house but Harrow herself. </p><p>Crux knocked crisply on the door. “Lady Nonagesimus,” he rasped, “I come to speak with you, if I may enter.” Harrow remembered that Gideon was not meant to be here; that if she was seen, it would break up the farce. She quickly pulled a knucklebone pinned near her throat and chucked it behind her. Her capillaries bursting with the effort, she raised a bone wall, thick with plates of smooth patella, one that obscured Gideon Nav completely. If questioned, she would say she had been working on a theorem; that it could not be disturbed. </p><p>She lowered her voice, “stay quiet, and stay hidden.” </p><p>There was no response, which Harrow dared to hope meant obedience, though, coming from Nav, it was uncharacteristic. </p><p>Harrow opened the door with a twist and let in the stooped and crumbling figure of the marshal. “What is it, Crux.” </p><p>He bowed, never negligent with the formalities even in the face of imminent demise. Though, as Gideon would have said, Crux was constantly facing imminent demise. “Sister Glaurica is complaining that Ortus needs more blankets from the reserves.” </p><p>Harrow rolled her eyes. “Has Ortus himself expressed any displeasure?” </p><p>“He did look rather cold, but no, he has not said anything, but grumbled and recited something about ,” Crux coughed before he began, “‘The bleak and barren borders of frozen climes / shatter the hearts of even stolid soldiers.’” </p><p>“That’s not even in proper metre.” Harrow said disgustedly, “I hope he’s workshopping it. Regardless, that’s irrelevant. I’ve given out all the blankets and I’m working on getting the heating fixed, so if I weren’t being interrupted so frequently, he wouldn’t need anymore. Tell Sister Glaurica to devote her energies towards one of the Ninth’s most precious arts, that of the sewn tongue.” </p><p>Behind her came a choking sound. Harrow covered by grinding her foot against the phalange scattered on the floor. There was no gap between the two noises. Harrow had felt Gideon’s heart-rate change as she was speaking to Crux, and was prepared. Crux nearly jumped, reaching for his sword, expecting to find some assassin or other dreaded foe. </p><p>“At ease, Crux,” Harrow said, “there would be no use in trying to kill me now, when we’re already killing ourselves.” </p><p>Now was his turn for a choking noise, “We are not dying, lady Nonagesimus; I have faith that you will save us. You have served this house well; you are its staunchest defender before me.” </p><p>‘Thank you, Crux,” Harrow said. They were kind words, and they were wholly underserved, as were all of the few kind words directed towards Harrow. “You are dismissed.” He turned on his heel and marched back out towards the church. She watched luminescent flecks scatter off the backs of his robes and dance in the air, light, just for a second, as if they were moving of their own accord. But it was only the draft of the drillshaft. Harrow was too old and too experienced to be fooled by dead things feigning life. </p><p>The reason she was forced to learn to puppet the corpses of her parents spoke up behind her, “I think those were the nicest words I’ve ever heard drop from Crux’s rotting lips.” Harrow was always astonished by how much laughter lived behind Gideon’s words, despite having the most miserable existence in the Nine houses. It drove her fucking insane. </p><p>“Did I tell you you could speak yet,” Harrow roared, letting the bone wall drop. She wiped blood from where it had pooled in the crease of her nose. Her reaction scared even her, but she had built up years and years of calcified bone to shield her heart. To let Gideon in was to permit the possibility of forgiving her; and in forgiving her, Harrow would have nothing left to hate but herself. The truth was that she already did. Her self-hatred was so profound, it composed all that she was. And she was scared that they could all see it. </p><p>And she was even more scared that if they could see it, they would not think it was sufficient.</p><p>Gideon was looking at her again and Harrow watched, in slow motion, as her crooked smile dropped. </p><p>Harrow suddenly felt a great swell of guilt. She said, coldly, “I have to go look at the generators again. Don’t mess anything up. I don’t imagine you’ll have an interest in any literature more complex than sordid magazines, but if I  see you reading any of my books, I will not hesitate to throw you into a bone spike.” </p><p>She left the room, Gideon’s eyes, golden, sizzled into the back of her skull. Harrow waited, slowing her step, as she rounded the corner for Gideon to make a quip. Something immature, that wasn’t funny even if you squinted or had the sensibilities of a gross on-the-edge-of-pubescent child. But none came. </p><p> </p><p>						~~~</p><p> </p><p>Gideon, of course, immediately began looking through Harrow’s desk. She was drawn towards a dusty tome, but then filled with the glee of discovering a loophole, saw a pile of letters. Letters were not the books she was expressly forbidden to touch. She grabbed at the stack and fanned them out in palms to inspect. Harrow’s writing was predictably jagged and angry. There was no aspect of that girl that wasn’t permeated with hate. </p><p>She hadn’t even been shocked that Harrow had yelled at her. In fact, it had been a miracle that it had taken that long for her to lose her temper. But it struck Gideon, and it didn’t leave her, that Harrow had been able to throw up that bone wall, only breaking the barest blood sweat. All that time, she had the full capacity to hurt Gideon. And she had chosen not to. Whatever. Gideon couldn’t afford to extrapolate anything from that. </p><p>The letters were half-drafted, on flimsy, not paper. There was, unfortunately, nothing juicy. Not that Gideon expected Harrow to be revealing gossip to the Sixth, but, at least, maybe some confidence she had not been admitted to previously. But it was just formal language, asking, in the most ridiculous of terms, that the Sixth investigate the Ninths’ generators. In return, the Ninth would respond to the Sixth’s requests to update their skeleton servitors. </p><p>An hour or so passed where Gideon, having donned Harrow’s extra set of robes, too cold to worry about retribution, shuffled around the room, trying to find anything embarrassing in Harrow's personal items and only finding various bones, and a scrap of paper that said, “Body missing”. What was she supposed to do: mock Harrow for secretly having a phalange fetish? She was a necromancer. That would basically be a compliment. </p><p>It was only getting colder. Gideon began doing jumping jacks, quiet ones, so that Crux wouldn’t be alerted by uncharacteristic thumping noises.  Though she would love to see Crux’ reaction to her being given free run of the Nonagesimus library. Harrow had said she’d gone down to the generators. She should have been back by now. She was going to freeze to death soon. Gideon didn’t dare hope for that. The universe wasn’t so kind. </p><p>She ran a hand through her hair so that it stuck up. The cold, at least, preserved its shape. One blessing. Another was that Gideon realized that on her next escape attempt, she could sabotage the generators and probably get away with it. Everyone would be too busy scrambling. </p><p>But, that of course, required sabotaging the generators and possibly killing everyone in the Ninth. Ortus, at least, didn’t deserve that. He was too sad. Gideon pitied him. Although his life was immeasurably better than hers in every way, she pitied him, like one pitied a dog neglected by a rich owner. Even if his poetry was shit. </p><p> </p><p>Fifteen more minutes passed and Gideon couldn’t hide that she was almost panicked about Harrow’s absence. </p><p>Fuck it. </p><p>She was going down there. Either she would have the joy of discovering Harrow’s corpse or she would find Harrow doing something utterly pathetic, like chattering her teeth. Win win. There was always the significant chance Harrow would kill her for leaving the library and going to look for her. But when she was dead, it wouldn't really matter.</p><p>Having snuck past the skeleton servants standing guard, Gideon was confronted with no obstacles. Everyone had been gathered in the nave of the church where it was warmest. None of them were stupid enough to venture out. So, she continued to the lifts unimpeded. She felt the cool drafts of air issue towards her before she saw the pit. One of the lifts had gone down -- and not gone up. The one Harrow it had taken. Gideon walked into the other one, ignoring the discomfiting squeals of the metal. Wrapping her palm with the fabric of her robes she turned the wheel and the lift door, agonizingly, closed. </p><p>Gideon plummeted downwards, eyes watering, teeth fully chattering. It was fucking freezing. If she had thought her cell was cold, this was something altogether. This was the kind of thing that made Gideon beg for the warmth of hell. </p><p>At this point, she figured Harrow had to be in an ice grave. </p><p>Gideon found her curled on the floor, like a limp, boneless bat. For a moment, Gideon did not see her breathe, but there was a gentle fall. And Gideon ran forward, saying nothing, and when shaking her shoulders provoked no response, picked her up. </p><p>Harrow struggled like a trapped butterfly in Gideon’s arms for a moment. Her eyes fluttered open and Gideon watched as her pupils flared at the meager light. Gideon let her down, gently and Harrow did not acknowledge that she had never been standing on her own two-feet. </p><p>There was something hidden within her robes, that she was clutching. Gideon hadn’t noticed when she was crumpled on the floor. </p><p>“Is that a bone down there or are you just happy to see me?” </p><p>To Gideon’s utmost astonishment, Harrow did not immediately pull out what was indubitably a bone to bash her skull in with a construct. Instead, she massaged her temples, and sighed, before pulling out a rapier. Gideon almost laughed at the sight of Harrow holding a sword. Her grip was so abominable; it wasn't anywhere near the pommel.</p><p>“Griddle, I need you to take this.”</p><p>“I have my two-hander. I don't need that twig.” The blade was flaking so much rust, it looked like it could cut snow leeks and little else -- and even then, it would give all of the penitents of the Ninth food poisoning in the process. </p><p>“No, I need you to hold it, so I can attach this,” Harrow pulled something else out of her robes. It shimmered in the dull light: a roll of copper. “It conducts thanergy. There’s a generator in the armory we can attach it to, no cage. ” </p><p>“Can’t you just use bones,” Gideon asked, but she took the rapier. There was never a situation in which Harrow didn’t exploit the opportunity to use bones. </p><p>Harrow sucked her teeth. “Unfortunately, not. I need to give it the biggest burst of thanergy I have, and any bit of bones takes that.” </p><p>“And all you want me to do is hold this onto the generator? Why didn’t you ask earlier. If I hadn’t come down here,” </p><p>“I would’ve figured it out, but now that you’re here I might as well use you,” Harrow snapped, “That isn’t too complex for your pea brain?” She was clearly recovering some life, though it only was only getting colder. </p><p>She marched down back to the armory and Gideon followed her, slowing so that she didn’t outpace her. The last time she’d been down here, it had been for sparring practice with Aiglamene. </p><p>‘Here,” Harrow pointed towards the black generator with tiny frilly scraps of black lace hanging off it. </p><p>Gideon obliged and reached out her arm, so that the tip of the blade touched against the metal,  wincing as the cold found her wrist as it slipped out of the arm of her robes. Harrow wrapped the copper wire around the blade, and then bled. Copiously. Her entire forehead became slick immediately. Nothing happened. Gideon did not say anything. </p><p>“This isn't enough,” Harrow hissed, “I need thalergy.” Suddenly, she stopped. She had realized something.</p><p>“Griddle,” she ordered, </p><p>“Yes?” </p><p>“If I fall, catch me.” </p><p>“Wait, what?" Gideon watched as Harrow took a deep breath and then began to grey. She could see shimmering along the length of the wire, some ghostly neon. It moved in and out of view bits at a time, like it was twisting around some axis she couldn’t comprehend. She realized that Harrow was not sending her thanergy down the copper to the generator; she was sending her thalergy. She was killing herself. </p><p>“Harrow,” Gideon reproached, “Harrow. Don’t kill yourself for this. Harrow,” she repeated and reached out her free arm, “use me.” </p><p>And Harrow looked at her, full of shock and reached out, delicately as if she were handling a relic, and cradled Gideon’s arm in her cold, brittle hands. And Gideon shuddered, as she felt the life being pulled out of her soul. </p><p>But Gideon must have had more power than Harrow because the generator began to grumble, first a low growl and then quickly rising in pitch. And within seconds, it had begun a crackling hum. It was back on. Harrow relinquished Gideon’s arms slowly and looked at her. </p><p>And then she said something unthinkable: “Thank you.” But she looked puzzled at her own words. Harrow turned back to the generator and frowned. </p><p>And then they walked to the lifts, in silence, too focused on the sharp cold all around them to speak. </p><p>Halfway up, Harrow suddenly crumpled. Gideon lunged to catch her and was surprised at how little effort it took. Harrow was as light as air, and cold as ice. She checked for a pulse, pressing her two fingers against Harrow’s wrist and felt it flicker, feeble. She shifted the body in her arms and stared straight ahead as they rose. To look at Harrow when she couldn’t look back felt like an intrusion. </p><p>When they reached the library, Harrow was regaining consciousness. Gideon propped her against the door and laid out a blanket and the pillows from the chair on the ground. Then she picked Harrow up again, who protested, but only a little, and laid her on top. </p><p>And then, Gideon realized, there was nowhere else for her to go, so she laid down next to Harrow, under the blanket, making sure that they did not touch. But then Harrow brought herself closer, and Gideon could feel her shivering against her side. </p><p>“How are you still so warm?” </p><p>“There’s a reason you call me Griddle, my Twilit Princess.” </p><p>But Harrow seemed mostly senseless, because she snuggled -- actually snuggled-- closer in Gideon’s arms, and murmured, “you are the furnace of the Ninth.” Gideon did not really know what to say to this, except to pray for amnesia and ignore something unwelcome twinging in her belly. But she laid her head down onto the pillow decorated with a brocade of a jawless skull and closed her eyes, the Reverend Daughter of the Ninth house still wrapped inside her embrace. </p><p>When she awoke, she was in the arms of a skeleton. They were only mildly more bony than Harrow’s elbows. Gideon gingerly peeled herself out of the cage of ossified ribs; it felt rather like clawing her way out of a stomach, which was not an image she liked. Harrow had left her a note. In curt, spiky handwriting, she had written on a sheet of flimsy left, folded perfectly, on her desk: “return to your cell, Nav. Before the third bell.” It acknowledged nothing, which was typical. It had an unspoken threat, which was also typical. It almost rhymed, which was not typical but also probably unintentional.</p><p>Gideon obeyed. She obeyed, because she thought that that would beget some sympathetic feeling. She obeyed because she thought she and Harrow had made some tenuous pact. That if Gideon didn’t push, that if they did it slowly, they could heal this ragged wound between them. </p><p>So when she walked back out to her cell, noting that the overhead lights were working and that her goosebumps were only mildly prickling instead of enraged, it was with some lightness in her step. Harrow must have fixed the rest of the generators.  </p><p>She found Harrow leaning against the outside of her cell, a key clutched in her right hand, swinging gently. </p><p>“Harrow,” Gideon opened, “you fixed the generators.” She noticed that her facepaint was impeccable again. Not the Priestess-Crushed-Under-Rock. Another Priestess one though. </p><p>“There was some glitch, an interruption in thalergenic transmission.” At Gideon’s blank stare, Harrow elaborated, “They started on their own, after you kicked up the last one. I didn’t do anything.” </p><p>“Well,” Gideon said lightly, “at least we won’t have to be asking the Third House for help.” Harrow’s face pinched and Gideon quelled the sudden urge to step backward. </p><p>“Get inside, Griddle,” she unlocked the cell and as it squealed open stepped inside. Gideon shuffled forward. It felt wrong to see Harrow in there, in that small space, that only space that was Gideon’s. </p><p>She closed the door behind them and then put a hand on top of her heart and peeled away a single piece of her exoskeleton. She chucked in on the ground and Gideon, too slow to scramble away, watched as it expanded and landed on her ankles forming two cuff-like hands. She was immobilized. </p><p>“You know on the Third, Griddle” --  Harrow sneered -- “the necromancers eat the members of their house. I wish I’d done that; it would’ve been a hell of a lot more convenient.” </p><p>Gideon snorted. Of course the Third house did freaky cannibalism shit. She wrenched her ankle back and forth, trying to break free, but to no avail: Harrow’s constructs never budged. “So you’re saying you want to eat--” </p><p>“Shut up!” Harrow barked, cutting her off, “I’m not here for your inane comments. I’m here to tell you that you are nothing to me but a source of energy. I can butcher you for parts anytime I want; I can literally eat you for breakfast, Nav, and you can’t stop me. So why don’t you stop trying to be friends with me and start treating me like what I am to you.” Her chest heaved. Her dark Drearbruh eyes were glossy with rage. Gideon didn’t understand where this had come from. It was as though Harrow had lost all of her memories of last night; as if she altered them so it was not Harrow who had tried to thin a boundary, but Gideon. </p><p>“My umbral sovereign? My crepuscular queen?” Then Harrow punched her, with all her skinny force, square in the mouth. This, at least, was familiar. Iron-rich blood bloomed hot in her mouth and Gideon spat on the ground. “My lightless empress?” Gideon managed to force out, clenching her hands into fists. <i> My torturer </i>.  And Harrow looked at her, head tilted, as Gideon’s mouth swarmed with pain, and punched her again. It was like lightning, except lightning was something rare. Gideon knew this flash of pain like her own breathing. </p><p>The Reverend Daughter turned away, her robes rushing out behind her. Gideon had the urge to reach out and grab them, to drag her back into Gideon’s arms. She did not know whether it would be to pummel her, or to ask her for something with words her tongue didn’t own yet. </p><p><i>My only friend</i>.</p><p>Gideon Nav had endured far too much of Harrow’s abuse unflinching to cry at this, but as Harrow left her cell, robes unclutched, bones clicking in her wake, Gideon felt a hot, wet tear fall onto her cheek and, inexorable as the sadness itself, more followed. Nothing had changed, except that Gideon had allowed for the possibility of change. How stupid could she be? This was the Ninth: the only time things changed, they were for the worse. Around her ankles, the phalanges loosened and crumbled into gritty ashes. </p><p>“Furnace of the Ninth,” Gideon tasted the words, like they were candy turned sour, and kicked at the dust of the construct, “yeah, right. I’ll burn to keep you warm, Nonagesimus; it’s not like you’ve ever given me any other options.” She moved back up onto the cot and held the blanket up to her face, and she sobbed. She sobbed, a sixteen-year-old girl slathered in tears and blood and snot, like Harrow covered herself in paint. She sobbed for the useless hope of it all; for every wrong the Ninth had done to her; and for every wrong she had done to the Ninth, everything she had done to make Harrow hate her. </p><p>Gideon let whatever tenderness she had fostered last night die like a newborn animal, still wet with amniotic fluid. She had known that this was not how it happened: that six years of tearing each other to bits would not be reconciled so easily. Harrowhark Nonagesimus still hated her guts. But that was okay. Gideon could hate hers. The Ninth would live another day. The death of the Ninth house had always been threatened by one thing -- and it was not hatred, or even the love of its two daughters: it was the cold. It had always been the cold.</p><p>So the Ninth would live another day; and so too would Gideon, enfolded in its shadows.</p>
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